The Secret Ingredient. Nina Harrington

to life in her stomach.

      His presence filled the space between them and she felt crowded out, squeezed between the ivory-painted wall and the bench. Last time he had towered over her, his eyes like burning lasers, and she refused to let that happen again.

      Not going to happen. This time she was the one who glared at him face-to-face.

      Hard angles defined his jawline and cheekbones but they only made the lushness of his full mouth even more pronounced.

      At some point his nose had been broken, creating a definite twist just below the bridge. Thank heaven for that.

      Otherwise this Rob Beresford had all the credentials for being even more gorgeous than the last time that they had met.

      As Rob reached for a champagne flute the fine fabric of his shirt stretched over the valleys and mounds of his chest muscles, which came from a lifetime of hard work rather than lifting weights in a city gym. There really was no justice—that a man who could create dishes as he could was good-looking, too.

      Shame that he knew it.

      In one smooth movement he pushed the sleeve of his designer dinner jacket farther up his left arm, revealing a curving, dark tattoo that ran up from his wrist. It seemed to match the design that peeked out in the deep V of the crisp white dinner shirt he was wearing unbuttoned. No tie.

      For a tiny fraction of a second Lottie wondered what the rest of the design looked like on that powerful chest. Then she pushed the thought away. Body art on a chef? Oh, that made perfect sense...not.

      Typical exhibitionist. Just one more way to draw attention to himself.

      In the small world of high-level cooking it would be impossible not to run into Rob Beresford at the many chef award ceremonies where she was with the lesser mortals sitting in the back row.

      And of course there was his TV show. It took guts to walk into a strange kitchen and tell the chef that the way they had been running their restaurant needed to be turned around and he had all the answers.

      The TV audience could not get enough of the fireworks and tears and family trauma that came with having a complete stranger telling you how to run your life after years and years of working day and night. It had to be the third or fourth season. Why did these places apply? Madness. She certainly would never do it.

      He was precisely the kind of man she had come to despise for the games that he liked to play with other people’s lives. Pushing them around. Uncaring and selfish.

      Harsh? Maybe. But true all the same.

      What had she promised herself the day she walked out of the bank? No more lies. No more kidding yourself. No more second best. And no more putting up with other people’s games.

      Rob Beresford was a player.

      And she had no intention of being part of his little game.

      Then he lifted his head and looked at her. No. More than that. He seemed to be studying her. She had been expecting those famous piercing cobalt-blue eyes to give her the beauty-parade head-to-toe assessment.

      He didn’t. His gaze was locked on to her face as though he was searching for something, and finding it. Because one corner of his mouth turned up into just the hint of a smile, which only drew her attention to that kissable mouth.

      ‘I think we have met before somewhere, but I am embarrassed to say that I have forgotten your name. Can you help?’

      His voice was hot chocolate sauce on top of the best butterscotch ice cream and had all the potential to make her silly girl heart spin just fast enough to make breathing a challenge. More American than it used to be but that was hardly surprising. In fact, if anything, that trace of an accent only added to the allure.

      Could she what? Oh, was that the best he could do? Try and make her feel guilty for causing him embarrassment?

      She was almost insulted.

      Surely the famous Rob Beresford had better pickup lines that that? Or perhaps he was not on top form. There was certainly something different about Rob. A little less arrogant, perhaps? Not surprising. He certainly got around, if you could believe the hotel and catering trade press.

      ‘Oh, please. Does that line still work?’

      Rob’s eyebrow arched and a sexy smile designed to defrost frozen food at twenty paces switched on like a light bulb.

      ‘Occasionally. But now I am even more intrigued. Put me out of my misery. Have we met before?’

      ‘We might have.’ She blinked and then casually turned back to face the canvases on the wall in front of her. ‘But then again I didn’t expect to find you in an art gallery. Have you changed direction? Or perhaps you want to meet a different type of girl? They do say that museums and galleries are very popular with single people these days. So tell me—how do you come to know Adele Forrester’s work? You seem to be something of a fan. Am I right?’

      She heard Rob take a short breath. ‘I might be. But here is an idea. You seem to be very curious about me and I am curious about you. What if I answer one question then you have to answer mine? Simple trade. Question for question. What do you say? Do we have a deal?’

      Lottie raised her eyebrows, then squinted at him. ‘Can I trust you to keep your word?’

      ‘Now I am offended,’ he tutted. ‘Absolutely. Just this once. And I promise not to ask any personal questions. Scout’s honour.’

      ‘You were never in the Boy Scouts!’

      ‘Two weeks on the Isle of Wight getting sunburnt and learning to light fires. I remember it well. And you haven’t answered my first question.’

      Lottie could almost feel the prickle of interest build under her skin as his gaze stayed locked tight on her face.

      Maybe she could take a few minutes to chat with him? Equal to equal? Pretend that they had never met? It would make a change from talking to Ian about the fundraiser and the photography shoot he was planning. It might even be amusing to see him struggle to recall where and when they last met.

      ‘Okay,’ she casually replied as though she didn’t care either way.

      ‘Okay? Is that it?’

      ‘That is all you are going to get from me, so take it or leave it,’ Lottie replied with a small shoulder shrug. ‘And I get to go first. My question. Remember?’

      ‘Right. Yes, I know Adele Forrester and, yes, I am a huge fan of her work. Love everything that she has ever exhibited and a lot more besides. Happy now? Good. Because now it is my turn to ask for the name of my inquisitor. Because whatever paper you are working for has certainly chosen the perfect character for their entertainment section. So. What name shall I look out for in the Forrester review?’

      Lottie nibbled on the inside of her lip to stop herself from smiling. Ah. So he thought she was one of the art critics. Perfect. She was officially incognito. This was going to be fun.

      ‘Charlotte. But you can call me Charlie. I answer to both.’

      ‘Charlie,’ he repeated in a low voice, then blinked twice before shaking his head from side to side. ‘An art critic called Charlie. I should have known it would be something like that.’

      His trademark collar-length hair swung loosely in front of his face as he moved, then he flicked his head back out of habit rather than design and a low rough chuckle rumbled deep in his throat before he laughed it away.

      ‘Thank you. I needed that. And does Charlie come with a surname?’

      Patience. There was no way that she was going to allow this arrogant man to win his little game. Her surname would instantly give the game away.

      ‘You are so impatient. That is a completely new question. It’s my turn now.’

      Lottie tilted her head towards the canvas and pushed her lips together. She had met enough art critics through her